Poetry by Emma Dumitra

[Such Complicated Things the People Are]

Such complicated things the people are,
such silly notions we about them hold;
as if their only value’s found in gold,
as if by an equation we could chart
or map the minds of men on gilded things,
and trap them in a rhyme or on a wall,
as if, if they had roots could not have wings
or had a wealth of wealth and still not all.
Such complicated things the people are;
and we – disseminated by ourselves.
We know so little, yet have gone to far
to leave the sheaves of knowledge on our shelves.
Presumptuous are we. Is it just I
who cedes to myst’ries underneath the sky?